When Dolce was little, barely big enough that his wobbly legs could support him, the Manor brought him and every other lamb of age to school. It was the best time to learn, you see, that precious time before there were so many lessons to un-learn. Flanked by guard dogs, the little lambs paraded around the Manor grounds in formation. Right hoof, left hoof, right, left, right, left. Backs straight. Heads forward. Eyes always watching. Ears always listening, as their teacher whispered lessons of history in a voice so soft they had to strain themselves not to miss a syllable. And then a guard would fire their rifle. The good lambs of the flock continued exactly what they were doing, without flinching. The bad sheep would stumble.

Dolce catches his own reflection in the gleaming metal of the hatchet blade. His chest hardly shifts with the rise and fall of each measured breath. In for three. Hold for one. Out for four. Repeat. His knuckles, inches from the blade, are no whiter than the rest of his wool as he grips his glass. 

His cheek twitches.

The conversational silence, wrapped so tightly around his jaw, shudders and strains, and bit by bit he pushes his mouth open. At first, for a sip. He would have to close his mouth again, to swallow. He reconsiders, and puts the glass down. “I see.” The voice is barely his. His throat closes too tightly for proper diction. “So you heard of me, before the napkin.”

The perpetual din of the bar hasn’t stopped. Because it wasn’t a threat. This wasn’t a flash of anger, or any worrying emotion. He had been in danger from the moment Mars manifested. This was merely a reminder of the fact. The surrounding conversation swallows up the sound of his stool scooting clear and his hooves finding the floor again. He bows, low, from the waist, holding the pose in perfect stillness. It takes seven breaths for his throat to loosen. Three more to push his chest just so, to give his voice the proper intonation of respect. “It has been an honor to be in your presence, Lord of the Hard-Won Lesson, He Whose Shadow Inspires Abundance, Peace After Nightmares.”

This is the proper way for a mortal to address a god, especially one whom he has given disrespect. The names may be right. They may be wrong. They are chosen with care, spoken clearly, and with eyes downcast. It is all one of his station and stature can do to make things right, and he feels his stature keener than the blade of Mars’ hatchet. Small enough that his greatest capabilities could fit in a kitchen, with room to spare. Just tall enough to sit at a bar with a god, and hear him swear to burn his most prized possession, his greatest pride, his perfect world.

For love. Always and ever, it was called love, wasn’t it?

“I hope.” He blurts out. “I hope I do remember our meeting, today. And, that.” His eyes burn hot with unhelpful and unshed tears. “One day. I may leave upon an altar a fine meal that brings you joy.” 

No matter what future awaits the both of them.